I'm Very Militant, You Know, In A

The Nazis Hated Culture Itself, Because It Is Essentially International And Therefore Subversive Of Nationalism. What They Called Nazi Culture Was A Local, Perverted, Nationalistic Cult, By Which A Few Major Artists And Many Minor Ones Were Honored For Their Germanness, Not Their Talent.

A Few Times In My Life I've Had Moments Of Absolute Clarity, When For A Few Brief Seconds The Silence Drowns Out The Noise And I Can Feel Rather Than Think, And Things Seem So Sharp. And The World Seems So Fresh As Though It Had All Just Come Into Existence. I Can Never Make These Moments Last. I Cling To Them, But Like Everything, They Fade. I Have Lived My Life On These Moments. They Pull Me Back To The Present, And I Realize That Everything Is Exactly The Way It Was Meant To Be.

As They Embrace, She Kisses Him Full On The Mouth. And Suddenly Sticks Her Tongue Right In. She Has Done This Before, Often. It’s One Of Those Drunken Long Shots Which Just Might, At Least Theoretically, Once In Ten Thousand Tries, Throw A Relationship Right Out Of Its Orbit And Send It Whizzing Off On Another. Do Women Ever Stop Trying? No. But, Because They Never Stop, They Learn To Be Good Losers.

The Landscape, Like Los Angeles Itself, Is Transitional. Impermanence Haunts The City, With Its Mushroom Industries--the Aircraft Perpetually Becoming Obsolete, The Oil Which Must One Day Be Exhausted, The Movies Which Fill America's Theatres For Six Months And Are Forgotten. Many Of Its Houses--especially The Grander Ones--have A Curiously Disturbing Atmosphere, A Kind Of Psychological Dankness Which Smells Of Anxiety, Overdrafts, Uneasy Lust, Whisky, Divorce And Lies.

I'm Like A Book You Have To Read. A Book Can't Read Itself To You. It Doesn't Even Know What It's About. I Don't Know What I'm About.